


Everything in Common

by mercuryhatter



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, everyone dies because canon, how do you even tag for poly relationships, shameless mixing of bookverse and movieverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I always thought that Musichetta was way too badass to not have had a role in the final barricade battles, so I gave her one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything in Common

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a teary haze at two in the morning and I'm honestly still not entirely sure what all it says, but if I rework it later it'll end up a multichapter monster, so I'm leaving it as-is for now. I'm trying to figure out what my headcanon on Musichetta and the barricades is and this is one of probably six different scenarios I have bouncing around in my head.

It is early morning, too early yet for the summer sun, and she is lying between her boys while they lavish her with kisses. She wishes she could concentrate but her mind is elsewhere; still, she rocks her hips softly into Joly’s fingers and curls her hand around the back of Bossuet’s neck and her chestnut curls fan over the pillow as she sighs her release.

“Take care of each other, boys, I have to deliver the ammunition before our noble leader gets cranky,” she murmurs to them once her breath has returned, leaning over to kiss Bossuet, then tugging on Joly’s hair to bring him close enough to kiss also. They turn their attentions to each other as she leaves— they’re rougher with each other than they are with her, but they know she likes their hands gentle on her, and she knows that today is the day for desperate nails raking possession onto skin, for breath-stealing kisses that might each be the last. She knows this. But her only allowance is to conceal a gun within her skirts before she picks up the box of cartridges to bring to Enjolras.

The sun has arrived and even before noon the streets are baking, and Musichetta’s nerves are strung raw underneath her skin. Her boys are having breakfast because Joly has a cold, and if it were anything else she would laugh that Joly was sitting out of a march for a cold. But it’s not anything else, and if giving him cholera would keep him in bed today she would carry him the sickness herself. Musichetta marches with the others. Her gun bounces against her hips and leaves a bruise right over the place where Joly’s teeth had left a soft red mark.

It is afternoon, and the barricades reach tall across the streets, Jehan the little poet is singing verses to Combeferre as they all melt anything they can find into bullets. Musichetta doesn’t want to look at the two of them. She doesn’t want to look at her boys, either, but she can’t help herself, and every time she passes one of them she brushes her fingers across the back of a neck or a hand and has to restrain herself from grabbing them both by the collar and dragging them all the way to Calais.

It is past midnight, and she slips silently through the streets to the flat she shares with two seamstresses, searching for something else to put in their guns. Her two rings are long gone and her boys’ hands were bare too, but she thinks she might have an extra box of cartridges hidden under her bed. Dawn breaks and Musichetta gives up the search, her pockets filled with all the trinkets she can find and a fair amount of her flatmates’ needles; they’ll have to do. Cannons are booming down the street but she won’t let herself worry: the National Guard has tried their cannons before and failed. Gunshots pop amidst the cannon blasts and she thanks her stars that they still have something to shoot.

“Where are you going?” her flatmates ask, and she can’t fathom why they’re asking her such a ridiculous question before she remembers that she’d left her tricolor sash tied laughingly over Bossuet’s bald head so that she wouldn’t be stopped in the streets. A commotion is breaking out in the streets and Musichetta moves toward the door. She can’t remember if she’s answered but then she’s been awake for nearly thirty hours now and there are still more to come.

Someone is pounding on the door and her flatmates are hauling on her arms to keep her in place and Musichetta looks at them, confused, and tries to shake them off, why are they crying? They’re talking to her but their words are unimportant, she can’t remember the last time she even spent the night in this flat instead of Joly’s, what right did they have to keep her here--  _let go of me_! People are screaming and there shouldn’t be people screaming this far down the street, not unless…

And then Musichetta is throwing her flatmates off her arms, shoving them roughly into the walls of the hallway and scrambling for the door, maybe it’s them, maybe she can save them, and for a moment her fists pound in synchronicity with the fists outside and she screams to wait, just a moment, her hands are fumbling with the door but the old lock always sticks, you have to jiggle it just so but her hands are shaking too hard for the motion and her flatmates are still trying to get her away from the door. There are shots outside and the shots are no longer hopeful, she knows how many bullets there had been left last night and there have already been too many gunshots. She wrenches the door open _finally_ , she shoves her way outside and it shuts with a snap behind her, the lock clicking firmly in place. Outside, people are running everywhere over the streets, god, there’s blood in the gutters and Guardsmen everywhere and boys screaming as they run and she throws herself into the fray without a second thought, pulling her now-empty gun from her skirts and using the butt as a bludgeon; when that falls from her hands, she throws the needles and trinkets still filling her pockets, all the while running with everyone else back towards the Corinth. The barricade is strewn in ruins across the cobblestones and there are hands everywhere as those who still live drag each other together away from the advancing Guard.

By some miracle she finds Joly’s hand among all of them, pulls him close to her; he’s shaking with fatigue and blood is dried on his face, when she takes most of his weight he collapses into the hold with relief. She drags him into the Corinth, they’re two of the last and so she slams the door shut, taking the chairs and tables people hand her and using them to block the door. Enjolras is hacking at the stairs while Combeferre helps people climb up and she hands Joly to him, kissing him on the temple before he climbs up; her lips come away bloody. She’s scanning for a threadbare coat and a bald head, her green eyes wild _where’s Laigle_ but Courfeyrac is at her arm and he just shakes his head, she inhales deeply and nods while Courfeyrac shoves her towards Combeferre and she is hauled upstairs with the rest.

The makeshift blockage at the door gives way and Enjolras is passing out wine bottles, Musichetta almost laughs because they’re throwing _wine bottles_ at the _National Guard_ , and then there’s a commotion under her feet and a lightning flash of pain and finally, finally, everything is quiet.


End file.
